


Hello, John

by sofiathefool



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, John's POV, M/M, Narrator POV, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock comes back, post-Reichenbach AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 19:28:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/956796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sofiathefool/pseuds/sofiathefool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Silence.</p><p>That's the first word that comes into mind when one first enters 221B Baker Street after the Fall.</p><p>You would've expected a merry couple with a loud child, shagging whenever possible,and, basically, being content with their lives; what you find, though, is a completely different scenario: bachelor John Watson, sitting on his chair, having a cuppa, looking out the window. From looking at him, you would say the man was waiting for some miracle to happen and make the rain stop. Considering his words at Sherlock's grave, { "(...) one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock. For me. Don't. Be. Dead." }, maybe he was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello, John

**Author's Note:**

> Also available on:
> 
> deviantART: http://joanabvb.deviantart.com/art/Hello-John-JOHNLOCK-FANFICTION-ONE-SHOT-388236632
> 
> Quotev: http://www.quotev.com/story/3562931/Hello-John-JOHNLOCK-FANFICTION/

Silence. 

That's the first word that comes into mind when one first enters 221B Baker Street after the Fall. 

You would've expected a merry couple with a loud child, shagging whenever possible,and, basically, being content with their lives; what you find, though, is a completely different scenario: bachelor John Watson, sitting on his chair, having a cuppa, looking out the window. From looking at him, you would say the man was waiting for some miracle to happen and make the rain stop. Considering his words at Sherlock's grave, { "(...) one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock. For me. Don't. Be. Dead." }, maybe he was. 

But he would never admit that to you. Oh, no. He would give some cheap excuse, for instance: "I can't afford to move out.", which is true. He couldn't afford to move out of 221B, but he also never saved money to do so. 

Truth is, he didn't want to move out. He couldn't picture a life away from 221B, the place where so many memorable and life-changing moments passed, the flat he calls home. The flat Sherlock used to consider home. The place where the consulting detective would sleep, eat and inhabit. The place that he so many times nearly exploded with his reckless experiments. Let's just say that John wasn't amused when such happened. 

Many times he found himself looking back at the life he used to have 3 years ago, smiling fondly at the memories. But then, one quick glance at the empty chair across him and his nostalgic mood would crumble apart. 

But, once again, he would never admit that he was so sensitive to his friend's death. Whenever someone asked him about it, he would just shrug it off and retort with a blunt "He's been dead for (insert time), what do you want me to do? Sit on the corner and cry? No, thank you. I am fine. I moved on. Once I gather enough money, I'm out of that flat." Lestrade would never tell John Watson that, whenever he got drunk enough, the words that spilled from his mouth were the exact opposite. 

He'd tried dating, oh, so many times. He even almost got to the point of moving in with his latest girlfriend, but he couldn't. That was the first time he ever admitted to himself that he wasn't capable to move out. It was then he realized that he was attached to that place in ways he couldn't explain.

Unfortunately for him, every single arrangement lasted between 3 and 10 months. He wasn't able to stay in a relationship for more than that. He felt as though he was cheating on someone. He never admitted that. When the time for the inevitable break up came up, he would present a justification such as: "It wasn't working anymore." He wouldn't reveal the truth, ever: "It never worked because you're not him." Every time that thought crossed his mind, he would bury it deep within himself to be ignored until it resurfaced again. 

For someone who's so broken, he surely knew how to put up a fight with his feelings. 

Sentiment. 

Sherlock would've sneered at that word and declare once more that it is something found on the losing side. John couldn't agree more. 

In reality, it is because of sentiment that so many tragedies happen. Either one's suicide or the devastation of a nation for the lack of economic resources, stolen by their once trust-worthy leaders. One is the consequence of sadness, despair, desolation; the other one being the consequence of selfishness, corruption and minds blinded by power. 

But sentiment also brings goods that no other thing in this world does. It's some sort of payment for all the pain attached to it. 

It was sentiment that made Sherlock and John both fall, figuratively and literally speaking. 

It is also the lack of (good) sentiment that was making John's limp worse everyday that passed. He couldn't stand up for long before the pain became unbearable and he had to sit down. Another thing he wouldn't admit. 

{ "I was so alone, and I owe you so much." } 

Did he owe Sherlock... The consulting detective gave him so much. He supplied adrenaline, comfort, love and faith to John, behaving almost like a drug to him. When John was with Sherlock, he saw the battlefield, and that is something that he needs, otherwise, he'll end up conditioned to a wheelchair when the pain becomes too much. That's why he always praised Sherlock so much. It was a subtle "Thank you for entering my life and I hope you never leave." 

However, Sherlock left his life, and it left a broken John, crumbling, in the way. 

Everybody knew it would happen. Everybody. Even Donovan. 

{"One day we'll be standing 'round a body and Sherlock Holmes'll be the one who put it there."} 

Everybody saw the chemistry between those two and how hard they needed each other for completion. They saw how they tried their hardest for each other and how much they valued one another. They saw how they avoided worrying and hurting the other and it would often lead to hiding and lying. 

{"I don't have friends. I only have one."} 

{"You look sad when you think he can't see you."} 

And everybody knew how devastated John would be and how hard he would try to hide it. 

Bittersweet knowledge, if you ask them. Knowing the pain that one would go through when the other left. It only gets worse if you add the fact that John would have to lose Sherlock to finally understand that all the hints people have been giving them since they met weren't only innuendo. It was the truth, it was what's evident to everyone. Even for Sherlock. But as Sherlock didn't want to screw up the only true friendship he's ever had, he chose to wait for John to finally get it.

They thought the only one of them alive to experience the expected pain was John. Little did they know it was reciprocal. 

It was in the morning of the 3rd anniversary of Sherlock's suicide that it happened. It was in that morning that, once again, life changed completely for John Watson. 

John was sitting on a chair by the kitchen table, sipping on his freshly made coffee and eating the remnants of his toast when he heard a soft bang and rustling coming from the entrance hall of the building, as if someone was trying to be quiet but failed. He figured it was that cunt that moved in 221A coming home from another night "working at his office". The only thing he's getting done at that office is his secretary. His wife remains oblivious to the affair, or chooses to stay so, constantly ignoring the dried semen in his pants. 

John's thoughts were interrupted by the creak of a bad step in the old stairs. "It's a visit for Mrs. Hudson then.", he thought. People rarely visit 221B these days, only Mrs. Hudson at dusk, Lestrade when he comes to pick John to go to a pub, or Mycroft when he wants to check on John. Never this early, though. 

That's why the knock at his door surprised him so much. 

"Coming!", he yelled in response, getting up from his chair as quick as possible and grabbing his cane. 

He walked towards the door and peeked through the peephole. His breath caught in his throat and took a step back, startled. 

How could it be? It couldn't be possible, right? Or could it? 

He peeked again and found the same person on the other side of the door, who was starting to grow visibly anxious. 

He stepped back and unlocked the door. He took a deep breath to soothe himself. He really hoped it was just someone very similar to who he though he saw and his mind was playing tricks on him. However, when he opened the door, the eyes of the individual in question rose to meet his and he confirmed that it wasn't an hallucination. 

It was him. With the impossibly expressive grayish-blue-green eyes, the pointy nose, the full lips and big cheekbones. Him with the now much longer curly dark hair and slender figure. Him with newly added scars to his left cheek and forehead. 

Him who should be dead. 

"Sherlock...", John whispered breathlessly. 

The detective smiled softly and greeted, "Hello, John." 

Damn, did John miss that voice. 

John stood there, perplexed, his mouth gaping slightly and dark blue eyes wide. Million questions raced through his mind, all of them wanting to be answered at the same time: Whatishedoinghere?Howintheworldishenotdead?WhatshouldIdo?OhGod,whatishappening?Whydidheonlycomebacknow?DidhemissmeasmuchasImissedhim?Wheredidhegetthosescars?Hasn'thebeeneating?Helookswaytooskinny.ShouldIlethiminandfeedhim?ShouldIbemadathim?Isincerelydon'tknowwhattodo! 

The gears in his brain came to a sudden stop when Sherlock spoke again. 

"Can I come in?", Sherlock asked in soft yet inquiring tone, as if he sincerely didn't already know that John would let him in anyway. 

"Yeah. Sure.", the older man replied, dumbfounded. He stepped aside and let the detective in, closing the door afterwards and staring at it for a brief moment, still gaping. 

When he turned around, he found Sherlock already without his overall coat on and looking around the living room, examining it. 

{"Would you do that, just for me, just... stop it. Stop this!"}

John took a couple steps forward, quickly assuming an (attempt of) angry expression, rather than a confused one, and asked, "What are you doing here?" 

Sherlock turned around and looked at John, his eyes saddening visibly, and responded, "I came to... Fix this." He seemed at loss for words, and it both broke and made John feel better to know that he still is one of the few who can make Sherlock stutter. 

It wasn't enough to calm him down, and when he spoke again, he sounded a little bit more aggressive than he intended, "Fix what? Do you think there's something to fix here?" 

Sherlock looked down briefly, as if he was ashamed, "There is. I have much explaining to do and I would like to get on with it but, please, calm down. And, also, can we please sit down? My legs are killing me." He met John's eyes again and it almost looked like his eyes were pleading for him to soothe his nerves. 

John looked away and shrugged, "Go ahead." 

Sherlock seemed to relax slightly and headed for the kitchen. It was only then that John noticed the detective's unpronounced limp. 

"You have to be kidding.", John murmured to himself. He went to sit down at the same chair where he was previously and, when he did, he realized sitting wasn't as painful as it was 10 minutes ago. He pointed to his food and asked, "Do you mind?" 

Sherlock shook his head, "Go on." 

"Do you want to eat, or...?" 

"Starving.", the detective answered, automically reminiscing John of their first conversation after he saved Sherlock from the cabbie and their first actual dinner together (one where John didn't ask Sherlock about his status). 

John sat up and quickly prepared a coffee and a toast for the detective and served him, sitting back down on his chair. Sherlock thanked him and, when he took the first bite of his toast, a wave of nostalgia invaded him, which only intensified with his first sip of coffee. 

The two men ate silently for a while, but John felt way too curious. 

"Sherlock?" 

"Hmmm?", he hummed from a mouthfull of toast. 

"As far as I know, you should be... Uhm, dead, you know. How... How are you here?", John didn't mean the tone of astonishment that was so evident in his voice. 

Sherlock swallowed and pondered whether to tell him now or later, and he chose the latter, "John, as much as I want to tell you now, it is quite early in the morning, you are under the effects of shock and we are both exhausted, so, if you don't mind, I'll explain it some other time." 

John mused, "Fair enough. Then, can you at least tell me why you're here?" 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and stared at John, "I've told you. I am here to fix things, to explain why I did what I did." He then lowered his voice and stared at his coffee mug as if it was the most interesting item in the world. 

"And to ask for your forgiveness..." 

John huffed and leaned forward on the table, resting his elbows on each side of his plate, "Then you better start explaining." 

"What do you want to know first?", Sherlock asked, leaning back against his chair and crossing his arms, as if he was readying himself for the surely long explanation that was ahead of them. 

"Why did you jump, Sherlock? And why did you say you were a fake?", John's incredulity about that day was slipping through his voice. "Why did you do it?" 

"I did it for your safety.", the detective replied bluntly. 

"My safety? How did killing yourself make me safer?", John asked, sounding almost indignant. 

Sherlock drew a deep breath, "It was the final problem. Moriarty owed me a fall, and, in order to make sure I fell, he blackmailed me, putting your lives at stake: you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. You all had snipers ready to shoot you in the head if I didn't jump. The code Moriarty came up with as a signal for the killers to get ready was shooting himself. Then I would be left with a dilemma. I'd already predicted what would happen, and that's why I sent you to check on Mrs. Hudson. To give me time to do it properly. And, also, I couldn't have told you sooner because, if the snipers had the minimal suspicion that our conversation and our reactions weren't raw and real, then they would probably shoot anyway. Hence all the secrecy was necessary." 

{"You told me once you weren't a hero... There were times I didn't even think you were human, (...)"} 

John took a moment to absorb all the new information and you could nearly hear his brain working. He leaned back on his chair too, resting his arms on his lap. "Why did you lie?" 

"I lied because, for one, I needed to "admit" what I'd supposedly done and get it recorded. And then, it was also an attempt to make you hate me and not grief me when I was gone. I needed to have you thinking that all of that time you had been believing in a magic trick - which isn't true. My deducing abilities are as real as yourself,- and hating me for lying to you. For taking you for such a fool, which you're not." 

John blinked. He didn't expect Sherlock to admit that so matter-of-factly. At least it guaranteed him that it was true. 

"Was that why you were crying?", John decided to ask, "To make it believable?" 

Sherlock opened his mouth to retort but closed it. He pondered on the answer to give for a moment, before whispering, "No. It was not to make it believable, although it helped for the effect." He met John's eyes, "I was... crying out of desperation. Although I knew it had to be done, I didn't want to do it, because...", he paused, as if he couldn't believe he was admitting this to John, "... because I knew I would hurt you all,- especially you, John,- for faking my suicide. And I didn't want to hurt anybody." Another pause. "I'm not very used to deal with sentiment, John. And back there I was trying to keep it all under control, but I failed. Plus, if you add it with the possibility of death if everything went wrong, then you'll see that it was a rhapsodic moment." 

{"(...), but, let me tell you this: you were the best man and human... human being I've ever known, and no-one will ever convince me you told me a lie. That's... uh. There."} 

John looked at his hands and felt his eyes water. He looked back up to meet Sherlock's eyes and he found something in them that he never thought he would, especially not directed at him: love. 

"Why didn't you come sooner?", John asked in a quiet voice. 

Sherlock leaned forward on the table, mimicking John's position from earlier, "I would've if I had the chance, but I had to stay away. A little over three weeks to recover significantly from the fall, and the rest of this time tracking down Moriarty's net of collaborators for that day and killing them, making sure to let them serve as an example for the next air-headed person that decides to hold a gun against your head.", he answered with determination. 

{"Look, please, there's just one more thing, (...)"} 

John leaned forward on the table and extended one arm. Sherlock looked at his hand momentarily and took it, enlacing their fingers. When their eyes met again, it was almost like an agreement had been made. 

"I forgive you, Sherlock.", John stated with a firm tone, squeezing Sherlock's fingers softly between his own, "But have in mind that it will take a while for things to go back to normal." 

No doubt it would. John was still raw from everything and, although he was comforted by Sherlock's presence, they still needed to adapt to their new reality. 

Hopefully, a reality where their wounds were healed and they can be together at last. 

"Just the fact that you are willing to try is enough for me.", the detective reassured, smilling fondly. 

John smiled back and did something that he'd been wanting to do for three years: he closed the gap between them, slowly, and connected their lips in a chaste kiss. Sherlock kissed back, feeling something strangely similar to butterflies erupting in his stomach, much to his surprise. However, he knew how to identify that feeling. 

When they pulled away, they leaned their foreheads together and stayed there, staring deep into each other's eyes and feeling their warm breaths. 

"I love you, John. I am very sorry it had to go this way, I never intended to hurt you as much as I ended up doing.", Sherlock whispered, surprising himself once again that morning. 

John smiled. Whoever thought Sherlock was an insensitive bastard really had their eyes covered with sand. If only they could see these moments, these moments where he was so human, they would certainly change their minds. Sure, Sherlock could be an insufferable dick most of the time, but if they actually took the time the peel his layers and see how soft he really was, they would understand why John loved him so much. 

The army doctor kissed his detective again, this time with more force, and muttered against his lips, "I love you too."

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that's it.
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed this fanfiction as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> This is my first Johnlock fanfiction, and, coincidently, the first one I post here on AO3.
> 
> I now recognize I faltered a bit with the characters, but, when I wrote it, I based their reactions, attitudes, etc, on the emotional damage the separation would've done to the both of them. It's still bearable though. I now know that John would not react this way. 
> 
> Also, note that I chose to not describe how Sherlock faked his death because there are so many different theories and, although I do have one theory that I hope is the right one, I prefer to stay neutral on that field.
> 
> Also note that this was written in the 25th July of this year, way before the teaser and BBC's British Drama Trailer. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. :)
> 
> \- Sofia


End file.
